Time
by GwaithGweneth
Summary: Seven short fics going through Jake and Mickey's' relationship in jumps- from just after Rickey dies to several years later. Jake/Mickey, past Jake/Rickey.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Time  
**

**Summary: The first of seven short fics going through Jake and Mickey's relationship in jumps- from right after Rickey dies up to several years later.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. If I did I'd...probably still be writing fanfiction, but I wouldn't post it.  
**

**Notes: Jake/Mickey, past Jake/Rickey. So, yeah, concrit is very much appreciated, reviews are chocolate, concrit is truffles, and somewhere in there are jellybabies.  
**

**Seconds**

It was seconds before it dawned on Jake that it _wasn't_ Rickey. He'd known it as soon as he saw him coming, of course, just one of him, known from the look on his face- Rickey never looked like that. But he'd hoped...he'd thought maybe he was wrong. Twenty seconds wasn't much time to think, actually, so it'd been more like...like his mind was rejecting any possibility that the man coming towards him wasn't his Rickey. But it'd only taken one moment for Rickey to die. One moment, one moment for the one man he cared about more than anyone else to die. One moment for just one man to come back. One. He thought, now, that he hated the number one.


	2. Minutes

**Title: Time: Minutes  
**

**Summary: The second of seven short fics going through Jake and Mickey's relationship in jumps- from right after Rickey dies up to several years later.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. If I did I'd...probably still be writing fanfiction, but I wouldn't post it.  
**

**Notes: Jake/Mickey, past Jake/Rickey. So, yeah, concrit is very much appreciated, reviews are chocolate, concrit is truffles, and somewhere in there are jellybabies.  
**

**Minutes**

It was minutes before he could think again. At the beginning, when Mickey had come back, come back alone, left Rickey behind, told him that Rickey had died, that the cybermen had got him, it had been minutes before he could think again. Those stupid tin men with their metal minds and metal feet- how were they so fast? They were made of metal, all cold and hard and heavy. They shouldn't have been so fast. And Rickey shouldn't have been so slow. He loved to run, how could he have been so slow? It was just a fence, just a stupid fence and a stupid tin man. He was Rickey Smith, damn it, he shouldn't have been so slow. He should have- he should have got over it, climbed faster, run faster. He should have lived.


	3. Hours

**Hours**

It was hours before he stopped thinking of Mickey as "that idiot who got Rickey killed". But he did. He watched while Mickey saved his life, both their lives, all their lives. While he was _clever_. And then he'd hugged him- not the way he'd hugged Rickey, all skin and sweat and lust, but something different. Something new, something...happier. When he'd hugged Rickey he'd felt bliss. A raging, lusting bliss, hungry for more. When he hugged Mickey he felt happy. Just happy. And he was happy, still, when he and Mickey sat in the van, hours later. And he cursed himself for thinking he liked it.


	4. Days

**Days**

It was days before he stopped running, before he could breath again. So many days. Afterwards, after Rickey had died, after Mickey had flown the zeppelin, after the Doctor had left, after they'd got in the van and driven off to Paris, after the cybermen there were gone, finished with, then he'd stopped. Then. Not before. He hadn't meant to, either, it had happened by accident. And force. Mickey had shoved him into bed, told him to_ sleep_, properly. He needed sleep. He could have taken Mickey, he was sure. But he was so tired. So tired, and it was nice. Falling onto the bed, the hard, lumpy, cheap hotel bed. With Mickey. Mickey, there, next to him. He'd meant to watch him, of course, make sure he didn't get up, start running again. But Mickey had fallen asleep quicker than Jake, and, as he drifted off to sleep, Jake could hear Mickey snoring. It was warm, there, in the hotel room, warm and safe. And a day later he was up again, running and fighting and laughing. But, just then, in the bed, with Mickey pressed up against him because it _really_ wasn't built for two, he slept.


	5. Weeks

**Weeks**

It was weeks before they kissed. Weeks of running and fighting and almost dying. Weeks of sleeping in the same bed because they didn't actually have much cash. Weeks of sleeping in the van, pressed up against each other because it was autumn, and it was bloody cold. It had been an accident when they first kissed. They'd just saved the world- Italy, actually, but that didn't sound nearly as good. And Mickey had smiled, and Jake had forgotten, just for a moment, that he wasn't Rickey. And he'd kissed him. Then he'd remembered. Kissing Mickey felt different. Mickey was different. But kissing him was nice, and Jake liked it, which was probably why he didn't stop right away. He'd kissed him because he'd forgotten, and he hadn't stopped for much the same reason. He'd forgotten. Forgotten that Rickey had died, forgotten that he'd loved him, forgotten that Mickey had lived when Rickey died. Forgotten. Forgotten everything that wasn't him and Mickey and lips and happiness. And then he'd remembered and he'd wanted to run, but soon he'd forgotten that, too, because Mickey was kissing him back and it was good. It was good and safe and warm, and he could forget. He liked forgetting.


	6. Months

**Months**

It was months before he stopped saying it, stopped saying "Rickey" into the darkness, stopped thinking, his mind still blurry from sex and sleep, that it really was Rickey holding him. Months before he stopped wondering why Rickey turned over every time he said his name- only to realize after a moment that it_ wasn't_ Rickey, that it was Mickey. Mickey. Mickey was the one in his bed, van, hotel room, living room, arms. Mickey was the one holding him- not Rickey. Rickey's hands, arms, skin, lips, chest, hair...but not Rickey. Mickey.


	7. Years

**Years**

It was years till he found home. Years of running- to places or people or sometimes just _away_. Years of fighting. Years of crying and lying and wishing he was dead. Years, and even a universe hop or three, before he found where he belonged. Before he was lying in Mickey's arms- like the first time, except he was in Cardiff, not Paris, and he was in Mickey's bed, their bed, in their flat, in their universe. Because it was his universe, now, too, his home. His home. Years of running before he finally fell into bed and slept in Mickey's arms, but it was worth it, because he was finally home. He was home, and he was safe and warm, and he was with Mickey. He was home.


End file.
